


Circles

by openhearts



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode Debate 109
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realizes, about forty-five seconds after Annie tells him "just pat me" </p><p>(and in the course of the mandated pat he sort of quickly caresses her shampoo-commercial hair. Seriously, he is a man who knows about product and how she gets her hair to do that bouncy, glossy, tousle-y thing is just beyond him. It also smells really good. He didn't just smell his hand. Christ.) </p><p>that she still has his cell phone. She brought it to the debate after he left it the night before (CleavageGate '09), but . . . it kind of slipped his mind. </p><p> </p><p>Beta'd by Jamie/cereal (on LiveJournal).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He realizes, about forty-five seconds after Annie tells him "just pat me"   
  
(and in the course of the mandated pat he sort of quickly caresses her shampoo-commercial hair. Seriously, he is a man who knows about product and how she gets her hair to do that bouncy, glossy, tousle-y thing is just beyond him. It also smells really good. He didn't just smell his hand. Christ.)   
  
that she still has his cell phone. She brought it to the debate after he left it the night before (CleavageGate '09), but . . . it kind of slipped his mind.   
  
He jogs after her (and it's not like exercise jogging, it's like Baywatch jogging? Because when you have the choice the latter is always more fun), and calls for her.   
  
"Hey, Annie!"   
  
But she doesn't acknowledge him, just keeps walking through the intermittent dull streetlamps towards the parking lot. He calls her name a few more times as he catches up to her, but he starts to feel like he should bust out into a rousing chorus of "Tomorrow!" so he reaches for her shoulder   
  
(because, yeah, he  _could_  get a new cell phone but then he'd have to download all his ringtones again and that was a meticulously culled collection of booty-bumpin' anthems, Family Guy quotes, and ironic Miley Cyrus selections that he doesn't think he'll be able to replicate.)   
  
So he reaches out and instead of the reasonable tap, his hand, of its own volition, starts to close around her shoulder (because, yes, of course, caressing the young girl is just what he needs to be doing right now. Thanks, Hand. Merry Fuckin' Christmas.) And luckily she starts to turn before he's just standing there pawing at her like a bear in a Girl Scout campsite.   
  
. . . and then lava rains down from the sky, or up from the bowels of the Earth, and a tornado of sulfur and acid surrounds him and, okay, fine, she's  _young_  but she's  _legal_  and y'know what? her boobs looked at him first, so you can't legitimately send him literally to Hell for this whole debacle.   
  
_   
  
  
It wasn't until he'd told her to loosen up, stop being so robotic, in order to  _win_  something that she actually listened to the advice. If any of the other ninety six people who'd told her that over the years had couched it in an undeniable challenge to her competitive spirit, she might have listened. Annie Edison could excel at anything, including slacking off. And look where that got her? A really, stunningly,   
  
(I'm doing it wrong, I must be, because things that feel this good just don't  _happen_  without consequences, and he's going to realize I tricked him into kissing me and he's going to hate me and  _everyone_  is going to laugh at me and hate me and I will end up a bag lady living on the streets with a shopping cart and a mangy cat and a really insane hat.)   
  
bad idea of a (fantastic. her foot started to pop.) kiss.   
  
But, they won the debate. So . . . maybe the bag-lady effect won't come into play and she can just . . .  _coast_  on this feeling for a little while. So she tells Jeff, "just pat me," and they walk away, off into their own solitary corners of the night, and she's sure he'll never think about that kiss again but that's okay because she gets to  _keep_  it along with her blue ribbon, no matter what anyone says.   
  
So she pulls her iPod out of her backpack and puts in her earbuds and lets shuffle pick for once, and Maroon 5 comes on and she can live with that. She readies her mace, pulling it out of her backpack and setting her thumb carefully on the trigger. It's a compromise since she's walking alone at night with her hearing impaired. She still feels a little bit invincible, buoyed along by his hands tugging her against him like he was  _hungry_  and she was something delicious.   
  
Then someone touches her shoulder and that plucky little voice inside of her is so, so glad to have that can of mace - her one as yet unused contingency plan.   
  
_   
  
  
She whirls around, spraying frantically, and screaming "No! No! I don't know you! Shit! Damn! Piss! Balls!"   
  
(she wouldn't usually speak that way, especially at the top of her voice, but the instructor of her self-defense class cited a statistic that eighty-eight percent of people won't respond to calls of help, but will respond if they hear swearing, thinking it's a fight and not an abduction. So, it's excused, you see?)   
  
Annie pries one eye open from behind the hand protecting her own face from the cloud of mace, and sees her would-be attacker doubled over, shrieking in pain. And she takes just a second to give him a mental, 'Hah. Thought you'd mess with Annie Edison, did you? You're barking up the wrong tree, buddy,' (buoy effect again. Any other night she would have apologized and asked if he was okay before running away crying) but she's interrupted by a familiar voice screaming,   
  
"FUCK, Annie, I'm sorry, okay? What the hell?!"   
  
She whips the earbuds out and drops the mace. Jeff has the heels of his hands jammed in his eyes, rubbing furiously, and he stomps one foot up and down repeatedly. Annie is rooted to the ground with her hands in fists up near her face. _he's going to hate me and I will end up a bag lady and -_    
  
Jeff lets out an agonized growl of pain. Something snags in Annie’s temporarily frozen train of thought.  _"I'm sorry"_?   
  
"What are you sorry for?"   
  
"Is this going to be one of those, if I don't know you're not going to tell me things, because I really don't - MOTHER FUCKING . . . the shit?! . . . is this BATTERY ACID? . . . I really don't think this relationship is at that point."   
  
He points his face at her and almost gets one eye halfway open before doubling over again and lurching off towards the bushes and Annie hurries over and straightens him back up with her hands on his shoulders.   
  
"Here, let me see," she says, quavering, but finally with a  _task_.   
  
"If I had the gift of sight right now I would," Jeff growls, but he submits and sort of hunches over her and lets her ineffectually turn his face this way and that with a tentative hand on his cheek.   
  
Annie packed light today. In her backpack, aside from every usual school-related sundry item (and Jeff’s cell phone), are   
  
wet wipes and a sewing kit and bandaids and tampons and a stain remover pen and gum and nail clippers and four dollars in quarters and aspirin and bobby pins and a travel pack of Kleenex and a pen and eight rubber bands and a pencil and those little individual waterless toothbrushes and a laser pointer and floss and a compact and a mini flashlight and hand sanitizer and Altoids and Neosporin and an extra set of ear buds and clear nail polish and batteries and hair bands and chapstick and matches and safety pins and hand lotion and extra earring backs and tweezers and an eraser   
  
and none of that is what she needs to get mace out of Jeff's eyes. Or nose, if that fact that it's running like a Kenyan is any indication.   
  
Or mouth. He leans away and hocks a giant loogie into the bushes with a few more hacks just for good measure, and when he stumbles back his fingertips brush her arms, to keep him balanced.   
  
Her mind races, tripping every few paces over the fact that he's touching her - why didn't she bring an extra bottle of water? - holding her upper arms loosely - did she activate that navigation feature on her phone? She's not sure what is the best route to the hospital from here - and her own hands are curling around his forearms because they're  _there_  and they're . . . nice, Jeff's arms, really . . .  _nice_  (and not in the way Shirley says it) - oh yes, in fact, we are going to the hospital. And Annie is going to drive and probably have to buckle Jeff's seatbelt (ohmygodohmygodohmygod) since she BLINDED him - laughing, hatred, bag ladydom.   
  
Annie straightens, tosses back her hair, and slings one of Jeff's arms over her shoulders. She wraps her other arm around his waist. ( _Oh,_  so  _this_  is what that would be like.)   
  
"Come with me." And she starts to lead him to the parking lot.   
  
"Where, Dante's Seventh Circle?" His eyes are still screwed shut, but he's not as growly. They fall into step.   
  
"No, that's violence."   
  
"Hmpf. Fitting." She's not entirely sure she didn't  _like_  the growly. A little bit.   
  
They get to the car and she sort of props him up against the hood while she pulls out her keys and opens the passenger side door.   
  
"Okay, just-"   
  
Jeff holds up a hand and puts the least-pained expression possible on his face, eyes still closed.   
  
"Just pat me," he says to the tree ten feet to the right of her.   
  
Annie stares at him for a second, and it feels like her entire body is smiling.   
  
She gets him in the car like they're on Cops (except he's wearing a shirt. The guys on Cops are ALWAYS shirtless. Ahem), and gets herself in the car and then the Seatbelt Issue comes up for real. He's folded up in the front seat with his eyes still closed, sniffling every few seconds, all knees and elbows jutting out everywhere, and he doesn't look quite as threateningly rakish for a second so she croaks "seatbelt," and leans over him to reach for it.   
  
He sneezes on her neck. Thank god for wet wipes and hand sanitizer.   
  
_   
  
  
"Fifth?"   
  
"Wrath and sloth."   
  
"Oooh, yeah, two for the price of one eternity of suffering. Cool. Eighth?"   
  
"Fraud."   
  
"No comment. Fourth."   
  
"Avarice."   
  
"OW."   
  
"Sorry, sorry sorry! I didn't see the speed bump. We're almost there."   
  
"Hey, here's an idea, next time daddy buys you a car, make it a human-sized one. Did the revivers of the Mini Cooper even HAVE knees?"   
  
"Sorry. ... It's devotion to material-"   
  
"I know. What it means. Wunderkind."   
  
"Sixth."   
  
"Whoa there, Tiger. With legal drinking age comes the right to ask all the questions. Third?"   
  
"Gluttony."   
  
". . . Second."   
  
"We're here."   
  
_   
  
  
Jeff reaches blindly for Annie's arm as she's about to get out of the car. Thankfully (regretfully), he does not get a handful of boob (maybe next time).   
  
"On a scale of Ray Charles to Andrea Bocelli, I'm still a solid Virgil Adamson circa hour one, but I'm willing to bet that misshapen blob woobling its way towards that large shiny Lego structure is a person with an actual injury."   
  
"But, your eyes, I have to-"   
  
"Annie, I'm fine. Besides, if we go in there, I'm going to end up on To Catch a Predator and you'll get shipped off to Daddy Warbucks by some social worker. And although you would look kind of amazing in that little red dress . . . you can just drop me off at the motel and I'll get a ride on Monday."   
  
He jacks one eye open, and it immediately starts Niagra-ing tears and maybe a tiny yet disturbing amount of unidentifiable goo, but he manages to focus on the significantly more attractive misshapen blob next to him. Her mouth woobles:   
  
"I can't just leave you all alone in a motel room after I threw myself at you and then made you pat me on the head and then maced you and stuck you in my tiny car and made you bump your knee and I still have your cell phone and I don't know who Virgil Adamson is."   
  
Both of his eyes open now and his look of horror might be about the goo-tears or about the missed movie reference.   
  
"Oh come on! That was 1999! You were like eleven!"   
  
"Eight."   
  
They both stare out the windshield silently for a few seconds.   
  
"Yeah you should really just-" Jeff starts, sounding utterly deflated.   
  
“Right.”   
  
She puts the car in drive.   
  
_   
  
  
The whole Motel Room thing doesn't really register until they're there and she's unlocking the door and running in after him when he trips over the threshold.   
  
"Y'know it's a good thing I look like I'm drunk, or people would think there was something untoward going on."   
  
Annie's grateful that Jeff currently can't see how huge her eyes just got and wordlessly points him toward the bathroom. Then she finds herself alone in A Man's Motel Room. It's kind of just as depressing as she thought it would be. Bad carpet, bland art, chintzy bedspreaddon'tlookatthebeddon'teventhinkaboutthebed.   
  
Bedbedbedrumpledbedbed.   
  
Something clatters -"Fuckballs!"- in the bathroom and wow it's a small space for two people when one of them is a half-blind giant.   
  
Annie sits Jeff on the toilet lid with his head in the sink and his feet in the tub. She leans over him, cupping one hand under the shushing faucet and trickles water gently over his eyes.   
  
"Careful, you're going to wash all the product out of my Fall Out Boy hair. Aren’t they your generation’s version of ‘rockstars’?"   
  
(He finger quotes on “rockstars.” Annie smiles and wonders if he would be surprised to learn that she really likes Johnny Cash.)   
  
She's keeping a calm exterior, but somehow Jeff's impending reunion with sight is worrisome. She realizes he was easier to handle (not literally. Wait, yes, extremely literally.) when he was at a disadvantage. But she keeps pouring the water faithfully and eventually he blinks a few last times and then opens his eyes - they're very red, but apparently in working order - and looks up at her.   
  
“There,” she says softly. She pats at his forehead with a hand towel, strenuously avoiding eye contact.   
  
"Thanks."   
  
"You're welcome."   
  
He sits up, swings his legs out of the tub, and shakes his head back and forth a few times like a dog (appropriate comparison is appropriate), shooting water droplets in every direction.   
  
He scratches his ear and squints at her for a moment.   
  
"Well, um," Annie sets the towel on the edge of the sink and backs out of the bathroom. She bumps into the door and trips her way across the motel room. "I'll just, ah. Well, so, yes." Witness one half of the winningest debate team in Greendale history.   
  
(Wet Hair Jeff can do that to a girl, conquering champion or not. There are a few drops of water still sliding down his neck and under the collar of his white button-down shirt. She can  _feel_  her pupils dilating.)   
  
Jeff gets up and leans in the doorway of the bathroom, his posture a mix of casual and shy.   
  
"Hey Annie?"   
  
She freezes, her hand hovering in the air over the backpack she'd dropped on the ugly orange oak desk in one corner of the room. Jeff scrubs a hand through his hair and it instantly re-spikes as if it had been trained.   
  
She makes a sound that's supposed to be casual. It comes out "Hnh-la-wa?"   
  
She makes her hand pick up the backpack to re-orient herself to the world outside of Jeff and his Spikey Hair and his Wet Neck and his Greendale Debate Sweater (god, the sweater really does it for her.)   
  
He finally meets her eyes and smiles, even while maybe   
  
(there's a lamp on each bedside table (AVOID THE BED, ANNIE) and he's backlit from the bathroom light, but it's still kind of dim and shadowy and . . . okay fine, it's all really sexy in a Depressing Motel Room manner of speaking.)   
  
blushing.   
  
"I forget . . . what's Dante's Second Circle of Hell?"   
  
Annie gulps noisily. Every bit of her buzzes with wild fear and the beginnings of exhilaration.   
  
"Lust," she whispers. Jeff cocks an eyebrow, but it somehow looks affectionate and not smarmy.   
  
"'S what I thought." It’s an invitation.   
  
It is in this moment, which, if we're measuring (and we shall, because Annie prefers to know the exact parameters of things), takes about three seconds, that Annie Makes a Decision . . . to stop (or at least delay; she's going to keep her options open) Making Decisions. Stop being so robotic. Loosen up. Hey, it worked out the first time, except for the whole mace thing.   
  
She drops her back pack unceremoniously on the floor and marches across the room. She stands in front of Jeff and stares up at him, hands on her hips. She closes her eyes and leans forward just a bit.   
  
Jeff pauses (she's in Formidable Mode, which is oddly becoming less grating, to the point that he almost feels . . . proud of her? Does that make this more or less creepy?) before he cups her pink-cheeked face in his hands and kisses her.   
  
It's slow and soft and she sort of starts to melt, but his hands slide dangerously to her hips and she curls her fingers around his collar. She pulls and he leans and just wraps his arms completely around her and she's never felt this suffocated and weightless at the same time.   
  
. . . since last year. Little Annie Adderall has found herself a shiny new six-foot-four-inch pill. But Jeff isn't bitter or chemical or controllable, he's a little bit spicy (she tries to remind herself that’s probably from the mace incident, but even if it is, he tastes  _good_ ) and he doesn't use Axe and she can feel the smile on his mouth when she sighs with a kind of agonized satisfaction.   
  
Jeff’s tongue slides against hers and his arms crush her closer and what she breathes and hears is all him and her blood pounding a race through her veins. If it were someone (anyone) else she was kissing (and . . . who else would it be?), she would have shoved him either away or onto the bed by now.   
  
She usually can’t stand the in-betweens. Waiting, idly for what comes next, unable to make things progress or regress. Waiting on grades, waiting on friends, waiting for life to happen to her. Annie doesn’t wait if there’s any way she can avoid it. She keeps herself busy, constantly, busy, constantly, busy, constantly, busy, constantly, untilit’shererightnowthisinstant and that’s why the Adderall. It helped her keep busy during the wait.   
  
She would have waited on Troy a lot longer, because while waiting was nerve-wracking and annoying, she always knew what the outcome would be. It wasn’t waiting. It was stupidly, self-destructively comforting.   
  
Somehow kissing Jeff Winger is the smartest thing she’s ever done.   
  
Because, right now? At this moment? (with his breath and lips and tongue making her skin sing as he trails over her jaw to her throat) Annie doesn’t mind the prospect of hanging out for a while in Dante’s Second Circle.   
  
_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, creep, there's a technically-legal-but-really who-are-we-kidding woman girl person (with boobs) in your creepy motel room. What's the next creepy move you're gonna make, you big creepy creeper? 
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by Jenn/Crackers4Jenn (on LiveJournal)

Alright, creep, there's a technically-legal-but-really who-are-we-kidding  ~~woman~~   ~~girl~~  person (with boobs) in your creepy motel room. What's the next creepy move you're gonna make, you big creepy creeper?   
  
Jeff kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and leans on the sink. Annie's out there. He still can't quite see. Annie. Is. Out. There. At least the stinging is starting to subside. Annie + Out = There. He reaches for the faucet and knocks a cluster of grooming products off the counter. "Fuckballs!" Oh, and, by the way? ANNIE. IS IN YOUR MOTEL ROOM. JEFF WINGER.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Baaaaaaaaaalls.   
  
"Jeff? Jeff, are you okay?"   
  
She pushes the door open just slightly and he kind of mumbles something that's supposed to sound like "fine" but Jeff is not really fine; Jeff is alone in a motel room

(make that tiny bathroom. Annie comes in the rest of the way and shuts the door, which is the only way both of them will fit unless one of them gets in the bathtub. Oh Jesus Christ, really? You had to go there. Don't think about the bathtub, Jeff.) 

with Annie and his arms suddenly feel really awkward, because what do you do with your  _arms_  in here? If he's not careful there's going to be hugging. He's been here before: no hugging.   
  
(Annie's really little waist in his hands and her arms crushed between them and the sound she made before she broke away. He knows the second he touches her again he'll just want to recreate that one insane moment.)   
  
"Here," Annie squeezes by him and puts the toilet seat and lid down and sits him down.   
  
Tiny girl hands. On his shoulders. Tiny girl hands will be the death of him. (This is where somebody says "But what a way to go! *winkwink*" And then it just gets creepy again.)   
  
"Okay, now turn this way, and lean your head in the sink and, oh, um, okay, just put your feet in the tub or something."   
  
IN THE WHERE? Fucking, fucking, shithell. Not the bathtub. Don't do it, Jeff. Don't go there. AVOID THE BATHTUB, JEFF.   
  
BathtubAnniewetnakedbubblesslidewarmnakednakednakedAnnie.   
  
Jeff grits his teeth.   
  
The faucet turns on and the water runs so close to his ear that he can almost tune everything else out. Her hand's on his shoulder again, and she's leaning against his side to hold her other hand under the water and pour it over his eyes. It's like getting baptized into the religion of male cougarism. But he's emotionally fifteen anyway, so really  _she's_ cougaring  _him_ , right? Damn. Since the world is kind of crumbling around him, Jeff reaches for a witty one-liner.   
  
"Careful, you're going to wash all the product out of my Fall Out Boy hair. Aren’t they your generation’s version of ‘rockstars’?"   
  
Finger quotes make everything better, don't they? Comfortingly passé, yet still a tried and true device of the snarky.   
  
It's quiet except for the water and the chorus chanting in his head about the boobs that are very near his face right now. Annie doesn't say anything. Annie's always good for nervous chatter. Why isn't she saying anything? Something's going on.   
  
He opens his eyes and looks up at her blearily.   
  
Oh.   
  
Jeff knows how to pick juries. He sees everything - every roll of the eyes, every curl of a lip. They used to call him Keanu at his law firm. Okay, maybe “The Devil's Advocate” isn't a film we need to be referencing. Temptation, sin, Al Pacino, etc. Never mind.   
  
Jeff opens his eyes, though, and looks at Annie (before she looks away), and   
  
 _Oh._    
  
Shit just got  _real_ , man.   
  
Because those aren't Annie 'I'm so precious and twee, don't you just want to give me a cookie?' eyes. Those are Annie 'I am very much an adult, and don't you just want to ravish me you big delicious man, you' eyes.   
  
"There," she says, and he's staring at her really hard while she pats at his face with a towel but she won't look back. Well. This is going to be a regular adventure in babysitting, isn't it?   
  
Yeah, yeah, babysitting was a weird analogy too. Let's move on.   
  
Jeff sits up and goes for a physical head shake to make things make sense again. He opens his eyes dazedly and looks at her.   
  
If she hadn't started to back out the door it would have taken about two and a half more seconds of looking at her before he gave up and tackled her into the bathtub. But she's leaving. Why is she leaving? Weren't things just about to get evil again? (He can't help it. It's an instantly indelible reaction in his brain when he hears the word 'evil' to think about Annie and her tongue in his mouth. He's probably going to have an inappropriate reaction in a very sensitive situation someday because of this.)   
  
So, okay, hot girl is leaving. Get on that, bro.   
  
"Hey Annie?"   
  
He stands in the doorway, catching her just before she's out the door, and don't just stand there fidgeting with your hair and making it look assuredly weird. YOU HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING, JACKASS. (When he's not arguing a point, this part can get a little iffy. Please contain your shock, people. It's unseemly.)   
  
"I forget . . . what's Dante's Second Circle of Hell?"   
  
A nice, simple question with a saucy double meaning is low-risk, easy to deliver, and, let's face it: a pop quiz is going to be right up Annie Edison's alley.   
  
"Lust."   
  
And oh, is there ever eye contact. He smiles. Afuckingplus, babe. I knew you had it in you.   
  
"'S what I thought."   
  
And then she's standing in front of him and she's got her Formidable face on, and this time?  _He_  gets to kiss  _her_.   
  
_   
  
  
Once she's gone   
  
("Jeff."   
  
"Mmhf."   
  
" _Jeff_."   
  
"Annie."   
  
"Stop, that tickles!"   
  
"Good. I like that noise you make."   
  
"Jeff? I'll talk to you later, okay? You have my number from the study group?"   
  
"Ugh, FINE. Yeah, I have your number."   
  
". . . Is this- this happened, right?"   
  
"Yes. Very much so."   
  
"Okay. Goodnight Jeff."   
  
"Really? We're shaking hands now? Is that a step forward or back from head patting?"   
  
"Good _night_  Jeff."   
  
"You know I'm just going to kiss you again, right? . . . Goodnight Annie.")

and he's picked himself up off the door where he planted his forehead once the latch clicked, Jeff flops on his back on the bed and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stares at the screen for a second and flips it over his in fingers.   
  
It's a Blackberry. They're popular now, but when he first got one only lawyers, stock brokers, and a few other brands of asshole had them. It went along with the Armani suits, the $26 pomade, and the Lexus. It doesn't go with Greendale, or the motel room, or the girl who just left it. He pictures Annie in some $1,500 cocktail dress with Luboutins and a cocktail in hand at a firm dinner party, and the incredulous thumbs-up he would get from the senior partners. Jeff glances at the cuff of his $80 shirt sticking out of the Greendale Debate sweater. This just . . . this is all really fucked up, right?   
  
Alright: there are things you Think About, things you Do, and things you actually Talk About after having Thought About and/or Done them.   
  
Tonight is apparently two of the three so far; the kiss at the debate had undeniably happened. Five or so minutes of seriously great making out had definitely happened before Annie had slowed the horses and caused Jeff to come to his senses after a brief but enjoyable sojourn in Hot Girl Great Kisser Land.   
  
And, yes these are things he's Thought About before. Let's not fool ourselves into thinking that the debate was the first time Jeff noticed Annie   
  
_   
  
  
The pep rally is, truly, a uniquely Greendale experience.   
  
The bleachers are maybe one third full, and that one song from Space Jam is blaring over the ancient sound system which makes it sound less like music and more like a symphony of flushing toilets. All the Greendale teams are there, proudly displaying their school colors (blue and white, naturally). The basketball team seems to be very proud of their matching velour sweat suits, the queenliest of them all checking out his reflection in the oxygen tank of the track team's octogenarian captain.   
  
Jeff and Annie find an empty spot on the bleachers that is also not occupied by dried out gum, shellacked-in popcorn kernels, or graffiti.  
  
("I'm  _not_  sitting there Jeff."   
  
"Why not?”  
  
“It says . . ."  
  
"Huh? I didn't hear you."  
  
"Look! "  
  
"Oh . . . I can't quite read it, what is that word right there?"  
  
"IT SAYS FUCK, JEFF."  
  
"Well look at that, it most certainly does."  
  
"You did that just to make me say fuck, didn't you?"  
  
"Oh definitely. And look; now that little girl over there heard you and she's crying! It's gonna be a good night, Annie.")  
  
And it actually is. Annie sits primly with her sign and Jeff sprawls out over about four rows of bleachers, muttering disparaging remarks about the bloated cheerleaders (what, are they all majoring in beer pong and minoring in Chipotle?), and Annie actually joins in, harshly critiquing their pyramid capabilities (why is  _she_  on top? She's the biggest one! This makes no engineering sense.)  
  
The streakily tanned cheerleaders hold up a paper banner for their future first and second husbands to run through. One girl gets trampled in the fray, but the dean assures everyone that "She's fine! She's fine. Everybody, she's fine." Pierce helps her begin to limp away.  
  
Jeff nudges Annie, motioning to Pierce and the cheerleader. "I don't think she's gonna be fine."  
  
Annie makes a face like she just licked a battery and Jeff finds himself staring at her and laughing. She glances at him, surprised, and smiles radiantly back.  
  
The rest of the rally is pretty normal, all things considered. The football team bounds around the gym floor like a pack of confused hamsters and the cheerleaders huff their way through a chorus of "let’s spell out every team member's name." Jeff makes a lewd comment about just how many cheerleaders have made one player or the other "their man," hoping to prove wrong the "if he can't do it, no one can!" adage.  
  
Annie cocks her head to one side as she mentally diagrams his sentence, then makes the battery face again and shakes her head at him, but there's a hint of that smile and Jeff can't help but think that if anyone else had made that joke she most likely would have lectured them into sterility.  
  
When she runs off the moment the prescribed festivities end to find Troy, Jeff actually finds himself truly bummed. Surprised, for sure, but also  _bummed_.  
  
Where’s his goodbye? Where’s his chance to trot out one last witty quip? He watches Annie and her tiny skirt disappearing into the crowd and cocks his head to one side.  
  
Huh. Come to think of it, where’s his chance to move in for a kiss goodnight?   
  
_   
  
  
And all this brings us to Jeff feeling like kind of an asshole right now. Because, obviously, he's gotten his kiss goodnight, and he's still hoping that whatever this is with Annie won't move from Thinking About and Doing to Talking About. He's realizing as he analyzes the bizarrely euphoric mess the night has turned into that he is way out of his element. His inner monologue keeps getting interrupted and he has to argue himself out of these obnoxious semantic puzzles.  
  
He can't keep the veneer on when it comes to Annie, and there's about a one thousand percent chance that Britta and/or Shirley are going to go all Benson and Stabler on his ass come Monday if he doesn't handle this right. He can handle a lot of things, but Annie . . . Annie's a conundrum.  
  
She was kind of a spazzy little sister at first. She freaked out and needed validation that the cool guy didn't mind her being around, which he could handle. Toss an arm around her or kiss her hand and she's basically happy, and he looks like a nice guy for a few minutes (which is really useful for him, so it's mutually beneficial).  
  
But then Jeremy Simmons, whose soul patch Jeff really would have liked to sink a fist through anyway, made her make that face. Simmons taunted her on purpose, just for the fun of it, and Jeff had glanced over and seen this huge weight settle on Annie's shoulders.  
  
Jeff realized that on more than one occasion he made her make that face himself, but he's also been around to come through for her and make her not make that face again. And if there's one inalienable right of big brother figures, it's to mercilessly tease and infuriate their little sister figures while simultaneously pounding into oblivion anyone who does the same, right?  
  
And y'know what? Simmons is a douche bag who doesn't know how to acknowledge a threatening tone of voice when he hears one, and that's a major infraction of a Man Law. You don't take a pissing match between you and another dude and then drag that dude's girl into it,  
  
(Witness said obnoxious semantic puzzle:  _Wait, did you just say Annie's_ ** _your girl_** _?_  No, not MY-  _But you just said-_  She was not  **my**  girl at this point in the story.  _So you're saying she will at some point stop being your "little sister figure" and become_ ** _your girl_** _?_...Fuck. Okay, listen, for the purposes of this illustration of the Man Law, Annie will be cast in the role of Jeff's “Girl," but don't get all "squee" about it, okay?  _...Whatever you say, man. Does she at least stop being your little sister before you make out with her?_ ANNIE. SHE IS JUST ANNIE, OKAY? She is no one's sister. Strike it from the motherfucking record.  _I think we're starting to get the whole conundrum thing._ Shut your mouth. Right now.)  
  
especially when you've been given a warning in a threatening tone of voice.  
  
(Jeff would like the record to reflect that while he absolutely had the ability, the balls, and a good reason to punch Jeremy Simmons, a) he's too old for this shit, and b) even  _he_  can't talk his way out of getting arrested for punching a paraplegic.  _Duly noted._  Thank you.  _May we proceed?_  Let's.  _. . . there really is no way to type out that Law & Order "dunkdunk!" sound effect is there?_ It's the thought that counts.)  
  
So Jeff refrained from killing Jeremy Simmons in the face and still communicated clearly to all involved that 1) Simmons is going down and 2) Jeff is not going to make Annie make that face this time.  
  
. . . And he didn't, because when she freaked out in the car in the hospital parking lot about throwing herself at him, he had the brilliant idea of luring her back to his den of iniquity, creepy creeper that he apparently is.  
  
Jeff sighs and rubs his hands over his eyes again. The empty screen of his phone taunts him and he comes dangerously close to finding the contact labeled "Spazzy Brunette Study Group" before he thinks better of it. He settles for changing it to "Annie" before tossing his phone away and turning the bedside lamp off. He rolls over and, fully clothed at eight p.m. on a Friday night, forces himself to sleep.  
  
Yeah, Jeff is definitely out of his element.   
  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'll never tell anybody in a million years (and you better not either), but she's taking a break from typing up Spanish notes (putting in all those accent marks is so time consuming) to mentally choose the font with which she'll have the pillow cases embroidered. Specifically, the pillowcases she'll have when her last name is Winger.
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by Jenn/Crackers4Jenn (on LiveJournal) with html handholding by tempertemper (on LiveJournal)

Annie sits at the desk in her room in front of her open laptop on Sunday afternoon. She props her head up on one hand and stares glassily out the window.  
  
She'll never tell anybody in a million years (and you better not either), but she's taking a break from typing up Spanish notes (putting in all those accent marks is so time consuming) to mentally choose the font with which she'll have the pillow cases embroidered. Specifically, the pillowcases she'll have when her last name is Winger.  
  
Annie Winger. It just sounds . . . great, doesn't it? Even better than Annie Edison. They'll have a mahogany California king size four poster bed (because anything smaller will barely fit Jeff let alone the both of them), and snow white 1,000 thread count sheets with a navy blue monogram. Nothing too ornamental, because Jeff's not a girly cursive kind of man. Something sleek and yet still traditional.  
  
Annie sighs, the kind of melancholy, unsatisfied, wonderful sigh that slips out when you can't hold on to a daydream any longer. She’s not terribly good at this – at daydreaming. This is surprising, because Annie has always excelled at most things she’s put her mind to. It’s so much like waiting, and so unlike accomplishing. But still, she lets herself have these little moments. No, it's not real; she knows that. But what can it hurt? Call it greed if you want, but she deserves to revel in the lovely impossible while she can, gosh darnit.  
  
Her phone chimes with a text message - at least she thinks that's what it is because she hasn't heard it since she set her ring tones.  
  
"New Text Message from Winger, Jeff" it says simply.  
  
Just like that. Like Jeff Winger texts Annie Edison every day of the week just to say hello. (Um, he definitely doesn't). She gets a little thrill in her stomach. Forget the actual message, for a few seconds the fact that there is a message kind of clouds her mind. She cautiously reaches out and slides her phone across the desk in front of her. She stares at the screen. The backlight turns off, but the alert still displays faintly: "New Text Message from Winger, Jeff."  
  
She steels herself, and flips open the phone. She presses a button, and the message appears like magic. Oh, the things they can do with technology today, really just astounding, isn't- READ IT, Annie.  
  
  
"From: Winger, Jeff  
  
good morning"  
  
  
That's all. "good morning" No punctuation or capitalization. Which seems about right for Jeff, doesn't it?  
  
"good morning"  
  
She can almost hear him saying it, scratchy with sleep when he's just waking up. He'll roll over and wrap an arm around her and she'll smile and say good morning back and run her fingernails over his arm like she always does because she knows he likes it. They'll lie there in their huge bed with the perfectly white monogrammed sheets and the sunlight pouring in and their adorable scratchy sleep voices and . . .  
  
It takes another fifteen minutes of the other kind of day dreaming, which is more like day nightmaring, which Annie is much more adept at, before she remembers she should reply. She glances frantically around her room, trying to figure out what to say.  
  
Her corkboard covered in blue ribbons and gold stars offers no advice. Her bookshelves stuffed with required and extra reading aren't piping up either. Was the cryptic "good morning" some sort of test? No, Jeff avoids tests like the plague. Well, she could do some quick research; maybe pull a few quotes to - No, Annie. This is real life, and this is Jeff.  
  
So, what do you say back when someone says "good morning" at (she checks her watch) 2:13 p.m. on a Sunday (after kissing you back in a debate, and then you mace him and drive him to the hospital and then you have to drive him home and he kisses you again and you bolted like he'd coughed on you or something (well he did, on your neck in the car, but that was because of the mace, so it's not his fault) and then texts you the day before you have to hold your composure when you see him at school)?  
  
  
"From Annie  
  
It's after 2 silly"  
  
  
(Silly? SILLY? She just called a thirty . . . something (oh my god I don't know how old he is. I don't even . . . he could be almost forty!) year old man 'silly.' Any second now he's going to just delete her name from his phone and never speak to her again. Ever. This will really put a strain on the study group. What happens if-)  
  
  
"From Winger, Jeff  
  
its sunday theres no such thing as morning"  
  
  
"From Annie  
  
My alarm clock begs to differ, Sir."  
  
  
"From Winger, Jeff  
  
your alarm clock sounds pretty bossy madam"  
  
  
"From Annie  
  
"On the contrary we've had many good years together."  
  
  
"From Winger, Jeff  
  
you havent had very many years yourself kid"  
  
  
"From Annie  
  
I thought I was madam? Am I aging in reverse?"  
  
  
"From Winger, Jeff  
  
dear god i hope not"  
  
  
"From Annie  
  
:)"  
  
  
Oh, yeah, that just happened. "kid." "Kid" just happened. So, so, so wrong, dude.  
  
Look, Jeff doesn't get nervous around women. That's like saying Chuck Norris gets nervous when he's about to land a roundhouse kick to the face. For Jeff, like the good lord Norris, it's more of a reminder of the knowledge that he is now and ever shall be an irresistible beast of a man.  
  
(What about Britta? She rejected the hell out of you. Like, repeatedly, in fact. 1) Britta is a special case. What kind of special case? The poor sad rejected Jeff kind? NO. The she's actually kind of a cool person, with whom I also wouldn't mind having sex, and she keeps sticking around, obviously because she recognizes how many redeeming qualities I possess kind. Everyone benefits. Yeah, because you contribute a lot to a relationship. Shut up, asshole. Sorry, get back to pumping yourself up after your epic fail with Annie just now. Epic fail? Really? What is this, Xanga? You never made your second point about how you're a beast who never gets nervous around women. STFU.)  
  
But, smiley face right? So, all in all, not a complete loss? The smiley face is a tricky bastard in this situation though, because it could mean a couple of different things, coming from Annie. Observe and consider the possibilities:  
  
Annie Smile #1 - The "I Rule Because I Got My Way and Now My Plot for World Domination By Way of Community Planning Can Never Fail" Edition. (She's the fucking Barack Obama of talking Jeff into things.)  
  
This is the scary one. This one means this is all part of her aforementioned plot, which means Jeff is some sort of unwitting collateral whose future in The World According to Annie depends on his ability to produce bags of ice, sleeves of cups, and a modicum of humanity. That's an unreasonable amount of pressure for a lawyer.  
  
Annie Smile #2 - The "I Am A Sweet, Luscious, Cupcake of A Woman Who Was Just Well and Thoroughly Kissed By Jeff Winger" Edition  
  
. . . As witnessed the previous evening. There is nothing in the free world wrong with this.  
  
But he’ll be damned if he’s going to risk asking her out for coffee or something only to get roped into attending a party for some manner of holiday celebrated only by the Dutch and signed up to bring five dozen mini pigs in blankets and a pack of napkins.  
  
So instead, Jeff decides to spend his Sunday glancing cautiously at his phone from the corner of his eye a lot while watching a Law & Order marathon and reminiscing about the good old days he spent with liars, frauds, and sundry other brands of criminal. Sigh. He mentally hums a few bars of “Yesterday” as he reaches for the remote.  
  
_  
  
Just when Jack McCoy – perhaps the lawyer of all lawyers, even if he is a prosecutor – has completed another shouty tirade, witnessed by one of his countless slim brunette ADA/girlfriends, Jeff’s cell phone chimes signaling he has a new text message.  
  
Jeff flails an arm out and feels blindly for the phone and slides his thumb across the screen to unlock it as he brings it up to his face.  
  
  
“New Text Message from: Annie”  
  
  
Hm. Jeff raises his eyebrow. After their brief text message conversation from earlier, he hadn’t expected to hear from her again before he saw her at school tomorrow. Which, god, could his life be any more . . . whatever the word for a thirty-four year old waiting until a freaking passing period to see his . . . whatever Annie was?  
  
He taps the screen and up pops her message:  
  
  
“How are you going to get to school tomorrow?”  
  
  
Um, hi, awesome car, in which he may or may not have slept once or twice, and which FOR THE RECORD, is most likely awesomer than the average house, so no, pathetic is not an appropriate word to apply to that situation, thank you very much. HEY. NOT PATHETIC, OKAY? Cut it out, Hyundai Driver, I see you smirking in the corner over there.  
  
Then it occurs to Jeff, as he’s about to text Annie a slightly truncated version of his previous thought process, that his awesomer-than-the-average-house car . . . is currently parked at Greendale Community College, where he’d left it upon being wedged into Annie’s car for that misguided hospital run meant to assuage the effects of her even more misguided mace-usage.  
  
So, crap.  
  
  
“From: Winger, Jeff  
  
maybe i just wont go”  
  
  
“From: Annie  
  
JEFF YOU CAN’T SKIP SCHOOL!!!!!!!”  
  
  
Here he facepalms for a few reasons; 1) Annie’s cuteness physically hurts his head sometimes, like pounding a whole Big Gulp of Mountain Dew at once. With about fourteen Sweet & Lows in it. And like, frosting or something. 2) CAPSLOCK PRODUCES LOTS OF MURDERY FEELINGS IN HIS TINY SHRIVELED HEART, 3) This girl. You guys, this girl.  
  
  
“From: Winger, Jeff  
  
says you”  
  
  
“From: Annie  
  
*formidable face on*”  
  
  
“From: Winger, Jeff  
  
does this mean ur picking me up?”  
  
  
A few minutes later, Annie pulls the Formidable Face on a little higher and marches out her front door, tossing an excuse about needing a reference book from Greendale’s library over her shoulder to her parents. On the drive to the motel she plays the radio a little louder than she normally would.  
  
She’d been steadfastly refusing to be distracted for the past three hours before she texted Jeff late that afternoon. Eventually she’d tried to shut down her day dreaming and study just like she always did on Sunday afternoons, but Jeff just wouldn’t leave her thoughts.   
  
She’d tried everything; playing music, reprinting and highlighting her notes, adding petals to all the three-hole punches in the paper to make little flowers, underlining all the proper nouns, everything, and there he stubbornly was at every turn: Jeff. In mental italics, which sounded like a breathy little sigh of approval in her head, which was also definitely not helping her not think about him.   
  
Finally the thought popped into her head as she stared out her window at the cars passing by every now and then on her quiet street: Jeff’s car.   
  
Of course her thought process then devolved into thinking about her car, and maneuvering all six feet and four inches of mace-debilitated Jeff into her car, and leaning over him to buckle his seatbelt with her hand on his shoulder and just how solid he felt under her hands, and how he smelled really good and when she’d said goodnight at his motel room door he’d blinked kind of slowly and licked his lips after he kissed her and . . .   
  
But the point was that Annie was concerned about Jeff’s ability to transport himself to school on Monday. That was the point.  
  
_  
  
  
“Wow, you weren’t kidding about the face, were you?”  
  
“Come on, Jeff.”  
  
“What’s the hurry? Oh, wait, don’t tell me, you need to study.”  
  
“Jeeeeeeeeeff!”  
  
He grins indulgently and cocks his hip out, one shoulder leaned against the doorframe.  
  
“Present.”  
  
Annie blushes a little – or a lot – and rolls her eyes and before she knows it Jeff rolls his eyes back, grabs her hand and yanks her into the room, kicking the door soundly shut behind him.   
  
Here his plan seems to have stalled, because once they’re facing each other alone in his motel room with the bed silently mocking them (bedbedbedrumpledbedbed) and the bathtub piping up with its own inconvenient truths (Bathtubwetnakedbubblesslidewarmnakednakednaked) from beyond the bathroom door, he sobers and pulls his hand away from hers quickly.  
  
Annie seems to mentally psych herself up for a moment. Her chin angles out defiantly and she crosses her arms.  
  
“Fine, you think I can’t be a cool time-wasting slacker even though I have studying to do? Well . . . maybe I can!”   
  
Her can-do smile cracks to show a hint of mental-tragedy at the thought of not studying when she thinks she should be, but Annie swallows roughly and forces herself to sit primly on the edge of the bed. She gives him a triumphant raised eyebrow when she finds the remote amongst the covers and turns on the TV.  
  
(Jeff has never been quite so glad to have NOT been watching porn.)  
  
Jeff glances between her and the screen a few times as she flips through channels, her face a mask of casual over a reality of “take that, Sarcasmo!”   
  
Eventually he slouches and sighs, shoving his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans so his shoulders jut forward and his elbows stick out. He rolls his neck all the way to one side, lolling his head dramatically.  
  
“Oh my god why are you going so. Slow,” he moans, referencing her measured pace of channel surfing.  
  
Annie glances up at him briefly, then back to the TV. “Why are you standing up?” she asks evenly. Jeff raises an eyebrow suspiciously even though he can feel his face going red.  
  
Game on.   
  
He slides over and sits on the bed, leaning back on his palms with his legs stretched out comfortably to the floor. He peers at Annie from the corner of his eye and she knocks into him with her shoulder.  
  
“Don’t be weird.”  
  
“Weird? Moi? I thought we were just going to get my car.”  
  
Annie tips her head down so her hair swings forward, masking her face, and picks at a piece of lint stuck between two worn down remote buttons.   
  
“I thought we should . . . hang out . . . just, before school tomorrow. Because . . .” she trails off and shakes her hair back off her face to look over at him again. “I just don’t want things to be weird.”  
  
Jeff regards her silently for a moment before he begins.  
  
“Annie,” he says, with a deepened tone of authority and wisdom – he hopes – “I don’t know if you’ve been aware of, oh I don’t know, anything that’s happened since the beginning of the semester, but I think you’re going to have to tolerate some weird because, and believe me I’ve tried, there’s no getting away from it around here.”  
  
She considers this for a moment before lifting one corner of her lips in a half-hearted smile before she looks back at the TV resolutely.  
  
Jeff’s not exactly sure if his little speech had the desired effect (which, weird, because Jeff’s speeches always have the desired effect) so he nudges her shoulder back the way she’d done. Annie looks over, appearing to have to tear her gaze away from the Animal Planet special she’s stopped on for some indecipherable reason.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
She blinks.  
  
Jeff swallows, shoving a stubborn rock of nerves back down his throat, and tries to grin at her reassuringly. “This is Jeff Winger, hanging out,” he informs her stupidly.  
  
Annie studies him for a moment, then smiles back, blindingly bright and joyful in the easiest way. “Okay.”  
  
She scoots closer and leans her temple on his shoulder, still clutching the remote in her lap. “Thanks,” she says softly.  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he mutters, and he’s being literal, because if she runs around blabbing that Jeff Winger sat on a bed with her for two hours watching Animal Planet on a Sunday night, or that after she said “thanks” just then he turned and kissed her hair (in a totally casual and friendly and non-adorable way, just so we’re clear), or that when they were walking out of the hotel room to finally go get his car that night he kind of put his hand on her back like guys are wont to do when women are walking through doorways ahead of them, or that when they got to Greendale and sat there for a minute in her car and she actually leaned over and kissed him (attacked might be a more accurate word here) he was the one to very gingerly extract himself from the vice grip her tiny little girl hands had on him and say all breathlessly and stupid and crap, “Um,” like that’s some kind of meaningful thing to say and not a total pussy move when there’s a hot girl making out with you.  
  
“Sorry, I-” she starts immediately.  
  
“What?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“No, don’t be sorry,” Jeff tells her (because, yeah.) “Just. I mean. Yeah.”  
  
Annie smiles again, one of those Annie-smiles and okay, maybe he kisses her again. A few times. Or something. But then he totally gets in his sweet Lexus and retreats to his bachelor’s quarters and puts on a smoking jacket and drinks brandy and other sundry sophisticated and manly things.   
  
Her certainly doesn’t go back to a shitty motel room and spend all night thinking about the eighteen year-old-girl he just spent the evening with and counting hours until he goes to school in the morning.  
  
Because that would be lame, okay?  
  
Jeff Winger doesn’t do lame.

_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, so, let me know when they're going to air your episode of To Catch a Predator. I want to set my Tivo."
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by Jenn/Crackers4Jenn (on LiveJournal), inspiration from citykeptblinkin (on LiveJournal)

"Hey, so, let me know when they're going to air your episode of To Catch a Predator. I want to set my Tivo."  
  
"Good morning Britta! Were there extra bitchflakes in your Honey Bunches of Not Your Business this morning?"  
  
(Oh this is already going SO WELL, isn't it?)  
  
"It was a horrible idea, Jeff, and you know it. I was starting to think you had a shred of decency that would prevent you from leading on an emotionally unstable girl half your age-"  
  
"So, wait, did the whole you're never going to date me, so I should just stop asking because you're never going to date me after you never date me thing not somehow exclude you from this line of flagrantly accusatory advice?"  
  
"I'm not here for myself, I'm here for Annie."  
  
"Oh! You've spoken with her? So you know that Annie kissed me, and it was for the express purpose of winning the debate? She put you up to this, didn't she? Or are you just that good a friend that you're coming to me without her knowledge after she didn't cry on your shoulder in the ladies room about it?"  
  
"Stop deflecting, you immoral giant! Are you even going to try addressing this situation before it turns into a great big clusterfuck of pain and embarrassment?"  
  
"Y'know what? Yes. Yes I am, and I know just what needs to be said."  
  
"Oh really?"  
  
"Yep." Jeff stands sternly in front of Britta and puts on an indulgent smile.  
  
"I kissed a girl, and I liked it: the taste of her cherry chap stick. I kissed a girl, just to try it-"  
  
"Ugh I give up. See you in study group." Britta rolls her eyes and leaves him in the hallway.  
  
"DO YOU THINK MY BOYFRIEND WILL MIND IT, BRITTA?!"  
  
_  
  
  
So that was on his way into Statistics. The rest of the trip he spent trying to keep from crumbling in on himself as he realizes that, yes, he just deflected from the subject of his feelings (good, fine, normal) by shrieking lyrics to a pop song in a crowded hallway (oh, how The Awesome has fallen.)  
  
Cue fifty-five minutes of Professor Michelle Slater on the finer points of tight skirts and fuck-me heels. It's not as fun as it sounds. There's an Annie-fog covering his brain. (Not his eyes, because, hello Professor Slater, I will bang your erasers all day long, but . . . yeah, definitely the brain.) It's kind of purple and sparkly and it smells like vanilla and erasers. Christ, it's like half the Disney princesses and a couple Catholic schoolgirls spontaneously combusted up there.  
  
When Jeff is just getting to the middle of the list of reasons no one else can ever find out about this weekend ever (except Annie, because, well . . . all in all he probably wouldn’t pass up a repeat performance, provided it was minus the mace. And the emotions. They’re such pesky, disturbing little buggers.), everyone around him starts to gather their books and slide out of their seats. The looks on their faces telegraph the cautious, shell-shocked glee of a class that has been let out early.  
  
Jeff bolts into the hallway, any memory of the last thirty-five minutes a completely lost cause. Pulling his shit together is the more pressing matter; he go-go-gadgets some cranky bastard!Jeff as he heads toward the study area.  
  
(He's really hoping Annie doesn't expect him to treat her like a fragile dove or some shit because guess what, lady: Jeff Winger is a red-blooded American man and he's not going to suddenly give up thirty-four and a half years of finely honed assholery just because she's harboring some Beatle Jonasmania-esque feelings for him-)  
  
Annie walks around the corner and Jeff gets sucker-punched in the gut by a humanoid construct called "Guilt." Or maybe it's "Arousal." The two seem pretty closely linked lately.  
  
"Hey," he says, going for casual and ending up with something closer to snivelingly enamored. He holds the door to the study area open for her even as he cringes at himself.  
  
"Hi Jeff. You're early today," Annie replies as she and her glittering haze waft past him.  
  
She sets her backpack down on the table in front of her usual chair and starts rifling through it. Jeff slides into his seat and slumps over his own pile of books. He eyes her suspiciously, waiting for the crazy to unfurl like the wings of an archangel of doom.  
  
"Yeah, my math class got out early."  
  
"That's wasteful," she sighs into her backpack. She sounds a little irritated at the fact that a class she's not in did not utilize its time to the fullest academic possibility.  
  
"Or, awesome." Hm. No doom yet. He rests his chin on his hand and watches her more casually. "But, y'know, tomayto-tomahto."  
  
Seemingly satisfied with the pile of books, notebooks, and binders she's piled on the table, Annie takes her seat. She rearranges some pencils. She squares the corners of the stack of books in front of her. She folds her hands neatly on top and looks over at Jeff.  
  
"Hello." She says, pink flowering suddenly over her cheeks.  
  
He raises an eyebrow, and his mouth cracks into an unbidden grin. "Hey there."  
  
"Uh oh, am I interrupting something?"  
  
Shirley winks broadly as she comes in. She grins maniacally at Jeff as she takes her seat. She settles herself and beams at the side of Annie's head until Annie looks over from the notes she's suddenly pretending to review.  
  
"Hi Shirley."  
  
"Hi," Shirley answers, like a squeak of helium let out of a balloon.  
  
"How was your weekend?"  
  
"Oh you know same old same old nothingnewwithmewhatabout you?"  
  
Shirley elbows Annie and leans in until Jeff's pretty sure he's not the only one who's going to know how soft Annie's cheeks are (A kitten's ears. Duckling feathers. Silk spun from cotton candy fibers. It all feels really good and really wrong at the same time).  
  
"Fine. Excuse me, but I forgot my calculator. Don't start without me!" Annie bolts from the table and through the door. Jeff's eyes grow about three times their usual size as she passes him, but she just gives him a twitchy 'I’m sorry' face before she throws open the door and motors out. Unfurling of the Crazy of Doom possibly activated. All systems on alert.  
  
Shirley's expression darkens as she turns her attention to Jeff and he realizes he was steeling himself for the wrong brand of crazy. She raises an eyebrow and takes one last stab, her voice a carefully revealed threat of faces and juke boxes:  
  
"Funny story: my dad was fifteen years older than my mom! I think it's nice."  
  
Jeff stares, with one slanted eyebrow. "Well thanks, but even I don't think I'm that much of a stud."  
  
Shirley just keeps smiling at him threateningly, so he adds in a lower voice, "Shirley, we just kissed, she's not pregnant."  
  
"Who's not pregnant? Is it that Ellen Degeneres, because she's a lesbian, you know."  
  
Jeff closes his eyes, wishing, praying to the god he doesn't believe it's possible to reasonably have faith in that he was in Annie's car with a head full of mace. Anywhere. But. Here.  
  
"Yes Pierce, you're right, Ellen Degeneres is not pregnant."  
  
"But that's not what we're talking about, is it Jeffrey?" Shirley cuts in accusingly.  
  
"What are we talking about Jeffrey?" Abed asks blankly. He kneels on his chair and glances around the room. "It's not about Fivel is it?"  
  
"What about Fivel?" Troy's voice slides up an octave and he halts just inside the door.  
  
Abed casts another look around the room. "Nothing. Nothing," he repeats carefully. He remains kneeling in his chair.  
  
Troy sits and stares at up at Abed. "Dude, it's like in that one movie, with the gorilla, and he's all "RAAAAAA" on the side of the building . . .  
  
Abed and Troy commence to "RAAAAA"ing as Britta stalks in and slings her bag on the floor. She sits down, crosses her arms, and looks purposefully at anyone but Jeff.  
  
"Everybody knows lesbians don't have uteruseses-s-es," Pierce mumbles to himself. "Right, Brittles?"  
  
Britta stares daggers at Jeff for a full three seconds. "I'm going to have a cigarette," she declares icily.  
  
Jeff leans out of his chair to block her path to the door. "I thought you quit? What about the Pierce Hawthorne method?"  
  
"It proved ineffective when I found out there was something creepier than a threesome in his hot tub."  
  
Jeff raises his eyebrows meaningfully, but Britta just steps around him and nearly runs into Annie on her way out the door. "Hey Britta, how-" Britta cuts her off with a guttural snort of disgust that she tries at the last second to mask as sympathy.  
  
Annie glances at Jeff, mystified, and he’s about to answer, but he realizes they’re suddenly surrounded by complete silence.  
  
In this group of people, complete silence is never innocent. Slowly, Jeff turns around in his seat. Eight eyes focus unblinkingly on him and Annie. He cringes inwardly and waits for the sound of Annie crumbling into a nervous mess behind him, but it doesn't come.  
  
Annie marches past him and to her seat. She sets her calculator down with only a touch more force than is strictly necessary and eyes each of her silent inquisitors one by one. "Well," she says finally. "Spanish isn't going to learn itself people!"  
  
Huh. So Annie Cotton Candy Cheeks Edison has a poker face, huh? Jeff's surprised, impressed, and a little bit pissed. Goddammit she's an evil little minx of a person. He mentally takes scissors to his traitorous heartstrings, which are really more like thread at this point from lack of use.   
  
Wait, did he just actually consider the word "heartstrings" with something less than complete sarcasm? Well why not adopt some kittens and stop foisting his Canadian pennies off on the homeless while he’s at it?  
  
Annie’s got them all obediently repeating phrases after her in less than a minute by sheer force of her own will to succeed, so Jeff slouches deeper in his chair and covertly checks the time on his phone. Just forty-seven more minutes until this study session is over and he can make his escape from Greendale to the possibly even more depressing motel room he calls home. Thank. God.  
  
He looks back up and catches Annie’s eye. Her lips twitch briefly into a tiny exasperated smile and her eyes widen and kind of flit briefly around the table at their company. Of its own volition, Jeff’s eye winks at her. Their eyes stick together a second longer.  
  
Okay, maybe he’ll have some company at said motel room again. And maybe he’s okay with that.  
  
_  
  
"Annie?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
It's not until she turns around that she realizes Troy is the one calling her name. Troy. Actual, real Troy, who she's spent a large percentage of the last five years of her life adoring from afar. Troy, who was the elusive carrot dangling just out of reach as she tried time and time again to mold herself into the kind of girl he would be with. She'd given up and started again countless times, never able to talk herself out of chasing after whatever he'd come to symbolize.   
  
(It was the sickest joke of fate when her mother refused to allow her to quit cheerleading the year Riverside High went to the state championships. Three straight days of orbiting around him, trying not to hear the snickers of the other girls, trying to remember her routines as he effortlessly bounded across the field, and then ran over and twirled Lainey Johnson in his arms when they won. It was torture, even as she replayed the sweet, ecstatic expression on his face as he celebrated his win. 'You see? When you apply yourself there's nothing you can't do,' she'd thought wistfully. When she got home she called the number that shady super senior had passed to her in study hall and told him she wanted a bottle of whatever would help her focus.)  
  
"Hey do you have the notes? I forgot to get them 'cause I was trying to beat Abed at Dude Look."  
  
"Wwwhat's Dude Look?"  
  
"It's where Abed waits till I'm not paying attention, and then he looks at me, and if I look up while he's still looking, I go 'duuuuuuuuuude,' but if he looks away before I look up, he wins."  
  
Annie cocks her head to one side and squints at him slightly. She smiles, a little sadly perhaps, and hands him the notes. "Here you go, Troy."   
  
"Thanks."  
  
She nods silently with one last appraising look before starting back down the hallway.  
  
"So," Troy starts again, and she wheels around to find him following her. "Are you and Jeff going on a vacation or something?"  
  
Annie tries to speak but it comes out as a serious of coughs. "A what?" she finally croaks.  
  
"Cause Abed said something about you guys and a ship. Aw man, y'know what's a funny word? Schooner."  
  
"I . . . I don't -"  
  
Shirley passes and eyes Troy and Annie. "Nobody likes a revolving door," she mutters.  
  
"Shirley!" Annie cries, scandalized.  
  
"No man, she's right, I love revolving doors. Do you think it was the same guy who invented the revolver, like the gun? Was his last name really Revolver?"  
  
Annie stares helplessly after Shirley as she keeps on her way down the hall before turning back to Troy. She sighs, and attempts to regain her composure. "Daniel Leavitt invented the revolver. I don't know who invented the revolving door."   
  
"See, that's why Abed thinks you two should go out, because you both know so much stuff. WAIT."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I invented barns. BOOYAH!"  
  
"Uh-huh, um, Troy, did you say before that Abed . . . thinks Jeff and I should date?"  
  
"Sure, why not? I'm gonna be late for practice, gotta go!"  
  
And with that, Troy leaves Annie rooted to the floor, a dazed expression on her face as she repeats breathlessly, "why . . . not . . ." She's working up to an anguished laugh, because . . . really, what just happened?!  
  
_  
  
  
No. Really. What just happened between texting a smiley face to the actual Jeff Winger - she can't pin down why the texting seems so monumental when she'd been kissed senseless by the same actual Jeff Winger not forty-eight hours earlier, but it does. - and being grammatically dive-bombed by the actual Troy Barnes? The chain of events leading from text to dive-bomb is pretty hazy, because when under extreme stress, post-Adderal Annie has a tendency to go on auto-pilot.  
  
So, let's go over this in a very detailed manner, (like the outline of a paper! Oh yes, this will make everything better) and perhaps look up a few relevant quotes, and once it's MLA-formatted we will have ourselves an answer! Go-go-gadget rough draft!  
  
1\. Annie analyzes the smiley face.  
  
A) It's 2009. Everyone's all over the internet and Twitter and Facebook and everything and rules of correspondence are changing daily. A smiley face is in fact a perfectly acceptable symbol to use in conversation. The catch is what kind of smile it is meant to be, and even more importantly, what kind of smile it is perceived to be.  
  
a) Perception one: The Flirtatiously Breezy Gee Don't I Just Look So Carefree Like A Billboard for Balanced Happiness Smile.  
  
\- This is what she intended. In fact, she's intended it often. She's even practiced it in the mirror for countless hours, training her facial muscles to snap into this position and toss a laugh up her throat instead of the vomit that's usually climbing. This smile is for when she feels the urgent need to keep from erupting into a sobbing mess of awful   
  
(See: spelling bees (she always won because she couldn't bear throwing the competition, and she always got teepee'd, egged, water-ballooned, or otherwise assaulted/vandalized by the losers), Girl Scout camping trips (sleeping in a four person tent by herself), and cheerleading (Troy and his sundry casual girlfriends))   
  
at a very inopportune moment. She's trained that smile just like she's trained the faux-tears Jeff always seems to find so convincing even though he claims he's immune.  
  
Perception two: The Cringingly Awkward I Have Nothing To Say To Your Witty Quip Because I Am Too Busy Blushing And Turning Spontaneously Mute Smile.  
  
\- Jeff has actually seen this one before, and like the impossibly cool guy he is, has never seemed to notice. It's just . . . oh, it's so like him to be all cool and suave and witty and, and . . . Jeff.  
  
(Margin note: Jeff replied with a smiley face when she followed him on Twitter. Too many possibilities to get into right now.)   
  
And . . . what is cool suave witty Jeff doing anyway? Doesn't he have a Britta to trail after? That's the way these things are supposed to go, aren't they? There isn't room in the typical romantic duo for the leading man, the blonde, and the brunette with the flashcards in her backpack.  
  
It's not that Annie doesn't think she has redeeming qualities. She knows she does. She takes initiative, and she's detail-oriented, and she's very neat, and . . . and she's driven. She just would never have expected someone like Jeff Winger to have found any of those unglamorous qualities so textable. Or kissable.  
  
But, critical thinking moment here: isn't that what she'd been hoping for with Troy all along? She'd always seen him as the impossibly cool guy who could somehow turn her sad little life around if he just noticed her. And now . . . it seems pretty undeniable that Jeff has noticed because, wake up sister: Friday happened. Sunday afternoon happened. And Monday is happening. Right this very moment.  
  
_  
  
  
"Annie?"  
  
Annie turns slowly, feeling like the world is moving in fast-forward around her.   
  
She looks up at Jeff, holding his books under one arm, in a button-up and sweater vest combo she really likes on him come to think of it. He raises his eyebrows at her and she peers into his eyes, which look almost . . . concerned? Were his eyes always that blue?  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Britta rounds the corner behind him, and Annie's eyes flick over automatically. Britta freezes and glances between them once or twice. She gives Annie a look finally . . . something that's maybe a smile, but not really a nice one? But not a mean one either. It's just . . . pitying? With a side of incredulity. Well that Annie's used to, at least. By the time Jeff turns to see what she's looking at, Britta's disappeared around another corner.  
  
"I'm fine," Annie blurts, a little too brightly. She tugs her backpack strap further up on her shoulder and watches Jeff expectantly for a second. He smiles, but still looks at her a little strangely as he motions her ahead of him down the hall.   
  
They fall into step - Jeff shortening his strides by at least half - and Annie tries to work through the rest of hers and Troy's conversation, if that's what you could call it.  
  
(1. Troy plays a game with Abed that Annie's pretty sure she used to play with her cat when she was seven. She doesn't really want to try to decipher which of them is Fern (she was a big fan of Charlotte's Web) and which is seven-year-old-Annie in this equation.  
  
2\. Abed has apparently put more thought into the possibility of her and Jeff than even she has? She really needs to see that movie he made if she's going to make an informed decision here.  
  
3\. Troy thinks he invented barns. But . . . that was a joke right? It had to be a joke . . . Right?)  
  
"- if you want?"  
  
"Huh?" Annie glances up at Jeff and realizes she's missed the first half of his sentence. And possibly all of some other sentences.  
  
Jeff stops and pulls her out of the walkway by one elbow. "Seriously, what's going on? You look like Denise Richards."  
  
"Denise Richards?"  
  
Jeff widens his eyes and hangs his mouth open a little, staring brightly off into space. "Vacant-face," he explains, snapping back out of it.  
  
"Oh, no, I'm fine. I just, um, I have to get home, because I have to study. For classes."  
  
"Yeah, but, see, what I was getting at before, was that we could go get coffee before you study, and I was going to suggest decaf for you but now I'm thinking not so much."  
  
"Um. I'd like to, I just . . ." she looks at Jeff and is momentarily drawn in to his expression, which seems to be saying 'please?' and also a little bit 'are you flippin' kidding me here lady?' but eventually she snaps herself out of it. "How about tomorrow?"  
  
"Oh. Kay." He looks confused and a little bit indignant. Annie smiles and puts a hand on his arm. She glances around the hallway once, and then stands on her tip toes to kiss him on the cheek. "Tomorrow," she repeats, giving him a smile meant to reassure herself as much as him.  
  
Tomorrow . . . maybe the world will have spun itself back on to its axis, and Troy will forget she exists and Shirley will like her again and Britta will go back to mostly ignoring her unless she has some sort of issue with her womanhood, and Jeff . . .  
  
Hm.  
  
_   
  
  
"You're Winona Ryder."  
  
She gives up. Really, she just gives up. Annie waits for Abed to elaborate.  
  
"Or June Allyson."  
  
". . ."   
  
"Which makes Jeff either Gabriel Byrne or Rossano Brazzi."  
  
"Abed-"  
  
"You'd definitely prefer Byrne. Either way, Jo ultimately realized that while she wasn't the same girl she'd been growing up, some elements of her personality would always stay the same and that was okay. It never would have worked out with her and Christian Bale slash Peter Lawford. They're much happier as friends."  
  
"Thanks Abed. That's . . . that's nice."  
  
Annie gets in her car, shuts the door, and rests her forehead on her steering wheel. It feels like she's spinning. Spinning on some sort of carnival ride of teen movie plotlines where the script was written by deranged fangirls acting out their own adolescent romantic frustrations all over her laughable excuse for a love life.   
  
This day, this weekend, it's just all . . . what? Any second she expects Ashton Kutcher circa 2004 to pop up in her backseat like a possessed jack-in-the-box.   
  
She finally digs her keys out of her purse and glances at the entrance of Greendale before she turns them in the ignition. She sees Jeff jogging down the steps. He puts on his sunglasses and glances back and forth as he crosses the parking lot. She puts a mental video of Troy next to him and watches them walk side by side until mental video Troy gets distracted by a shiny red car and falls behind.  
  
Well, maybe there it is then.  
  
In what seems like the next second Jeff's knocking on her window. She jumps and screams, but manages to recover and open the door.  
  
"Sorry," Jeff says as she straightens her skirt.  
  
"No, it's not your fault, I'm just a little . . . keyed up today."  
  
"I noticed." He shoves a hand in his pocket and rocks back and forth on his heels. "So, I know you said you need to go study, I just figured I'd come make sure you weren't catatonic or something."  
  
Annie smiles a little. "Vacant-face again?"  
  
"Epic vacant-face."  
  
They laugh quietly and hold eye contact. "Well. Maybe I have time for a cup of coffee," Annie says, feeling herself blush again. She doesn't mind nearly as much as she should.   
  
Jeff grins. "Alright then."  
  
They just stand there smiling again as the birds chirp melodically over head. The sun beams majestically down on the two as a breeze ruffles Annie's hair.   
  
"Okay, so . . . " They share an awkward moment before Annie turns back around to open her car door and Jeff goes to the passenger side. She takes a breath as she opens the door and-  
  
As she opens the door-  
  
AS SHE OPENS THE DOOR . . . which is locked. From the inside. The inside of the car, where her backpack and her neuroses and all that is familiar lay waiting. Along with her keys.  
  
"Annie," Jeff says as he leans over the top of the car. "Annie, the face has graduated from Denise Richards to Courtney Love . . .”  
  
She looks up at him (for a nanosecond she registers that it's really funny how giant he looks leaning over the roof of her Mini Cooper, but that's not enough to buoy her along past the fact that THE KEYS ARE IN THE CAR and she has no way of also being in the car and THIS IS NOT PART OF HER PLAN FOR TODAY) and that's when the sky darkens and the birds cease their chirping and take cover.   
  
The wings of crazy doom begin to unfurl. The wind picks up, swirling nervously around her and buzzing with frenetic energy. Her fists clench and transform to stone.   
  
"Annie! Annie, hey, whoa, dial it back. It's fine. We'll call a locksmith and then we'll go have coffee and everything will be fine. I promise you the world is not ending."  
  
Her eyes stop spinning in her skull long enough to focus on Jeff who is holding her by the arms and looking like he'd rather be in a foxhole far, far away. She manages a nod and swallows the fire-breath back down.   
  
Jeff eyes her intensely for another moment until she assures him shakily, "Okay. It'll be fine. Locksmith. Coffee."  
  
"Knew I shoulda taken that hostage negotiation class," Jeff mutters as he shifts to stand next to her and pulls his phone out of his pocket.   
  
He runs a hand over her back soothingly as he waits for information to connect him to a locksmith. Annie glares up at him for a moment because yes she heard that, but he smiles at her - a real smile. A real, unsarcastic, Jeff smile. She can't help it (doesn't want to) she lets the remains of the freak-out fall away and leans into his side.  
  
When the locksmith finally arrives and opens the car, and they're in (Jeff's prepared for the physical origami he has to perform to fit in the front seat this time, so there's much less mental cursing than last time he was in her car), Annie turns on the radio and begins to hum softly under her breath as she pulls out of the parking space.  
  
"Nsync? Really?" Jeff asks. "Aren't you a little old for them?"  
  
"No, I was ten when No Strings Attached came out."  
  
"Annie."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"What year was that?"  
  
"Two thousand."  
  
"And you were ten."  
  
"Yeah, why?"  
  
Jeff stares out the windshield silently for a moment. He sighs.  
"Oh, nothing. Just realizing that not only am I going to the Special Hell, but I'll be in the second circle, in the corner with the guys with the molestaches."  
  
They come to a red light and Annie leans over and pecks him on the cheek.  
  
Well shit. He's a lawyer, right? So he was going to end up in the Special Hell anyway. It was always just a question of which circle he'd land in.   
  
Number two seemed as Hell-y as any, and the trip down was a lot more fun.

_


End file.
